The Measures Between Us by Ethan Hauser Page A

tell the runners were close when the police motorcycles rumbled by and shaved the crowd back, the cops shouting through their megaphones for everyone to make room. The growling bikes excited the children in the crowd, who stared wide-eyed as the bulky machines and their stern drivers sped past. Then the flatbed trucks rolled by, piled with photographers and TV cameramen, so many they were almost spilling off.
    Finally the runners came, in their neon-striped sneakers and flimsy tank tops, big black numbers pinned to their chests. They were always so skinny, all tight, sinewy muscle, and they looked too insubstantial to have so much of a production bubbling around them, the cheering crowds and the police and the photographers and smiling newscasters. They weren’t like football or basketball players, giants who seemed to draw attention like magnets. No matter how cool the temperature they were invariably drenched in sweat, their hair matted to their skulls, their shirts pasted to their skin. They reached for the cups of water people held out, gulping it down all in one motion and then tossing the empty cups to the curb. Some splashed the water on their faces and the backs of their necks, others squeezed packets of protein gel into their mouths. Along with the rest of the crowd, Henry cheered them on, but he didn’t think they could hear anything except the blunt command of their brains. They must be in a haze. How else could they absorb so much pain without quitting?
    Fifteen minutes after the initial men, the first woman appeared,igniting another round of cheers, especially among the women. The female runners were even more slight than the men, as if all the training, all those hundred-mile practice weeks, had stripped their bodies to only what was essential. They had no hips, no long hair, and their breasts were flattened against their chests under tight sports bras. Their thighs and arms and stomachs were little more than cords of muscle, and even their mouths appeared drained of any excess material. They were taut as rubber bands. Henry wondered whether their boyfriends and husbands minded.
    â€œDr. Wheeling.”
    Henry recognized the voice immediately. He knew before he turned around that he would see Samantha Webster, one of his students.
    â€œSamantha,” he said, facing her. “How are you?”
    â€œOh, fine,” she said. “I was just about to leave. I was walking to my car when I saw you, so I thought I’d say hi.”
    Samantha wasn’t the most gifted of his students, nor was she struggling. Henry had always suspected that she wasn’t destined to remain in the field, that a few years from now she would discover what it was she actually wanted to do with her life and leave the vagaries of graduate school and psychology behind. She’d finish her coursework, maybe even begin collecting research for a dissertation, then move on to something else. For some reason, perhaps because she was very pretty, he thought that a man would entice her away from completing her degree. A man who’d distract her from textbooks with trips to Thailand and Nice.
    â€œAre you here alone?” Samantha asked.
    Henry nodded. “How about you?”
    â€œYeah. I almost bailed, on account of the clouds, but I’vewatched every year since I’ve been in Boston and I didn’t feel like breaking my tradition.” She absently rolled up the right sleeve of her windbreaker. “It’s nice to have little routines—that’s why people go to church, right?”
    â€œOne reason, I suppose,” said Henry. “Plus, you know, God and all.”
    â€œOh, right,” Samantha smiled. “God and all.”
    â€œDon’t let me keep you from getting home,” Henry said.
    â€œI wasn’t in any rush, I was enjoying my aimlessness,” Samantha said. “Were you finished watching, too?”
    â€œI guess so,” Henry said. “I like to see the